Sterling Squadron (8 page)

Colonel Winter hit the
GO
button. The elevator lurched ahead.

“In fact, Mr. Blackwood,” she said, “I don’t want you
thinking
about Sterling. Consider it a Class-A restricted site for all Resisters—especially Resister pilots, and especially Resister pilot trainees.”

“I understand,” Ethan managed to whisper.

He understood the order, but not the
reason
behind it.

What was so terrible about Sterling?

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Cold air washed into the space. Outside was the landing hangar, busy with technicians working on I.C.E. suits and pilots clambering into and out of the cockpits.

Ethan wished he were out there.

The colonel stepped out and gestured to Madison. “I believe you have duties here, Corporal?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Madison scurried out after her, her spiked hair bobbing wildly. Madison shot Ethan a half-pleading look that warned him,
DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID!

Or, it might have been,
DON’T DO ANYTHING, STUPID!

The doors closed.

Ethan slumped against the wall, feeling like he was going to pass out or throw up … maybe both.

That hadn’t gone as he’d hoped with Colonel Winter.

From her reaction, though, he knew there
was
something special about Sterling.

But what?

How could she just ignore it when in a few months this base could very well be overrun by Ch’zar?

There was only one person here who had answers.

Ethan reached for the elevator’s buttons but hesitated. Was this the right thing? Or was it like Madison had written in her assessment—that Ethan Blackwood was reckless and out to prove he was the best, no matter who it hurt?

No.

His instincts screamed at him that this was the
right
thing to do, the only thing.

If no one else was going to take action and save the Seed Bank and the Resisters, Ethan
had
to.

Even if it meant helping a person who wanted to kill him.

  9  

ETHAN PUSHED A CART FULL OF PLUNGERS
, spools of steel cable that snaked through pipes, clog-dissolving chemicals, and cleaners to make everything spick-and-span.

It was completely humiliating.

A week ago he’d been learning to fly and fight with the best pilots on earth. Now he was a waste management tech, second class.

He’d missed out on an important mission. Jack Figgin and his squadron took a group of trainees out, crushed a Ch’zar security patrol, and hacked into an electronic relay
in the enemy’s satellite dish on Mount Rushmore. That gave the Resistance a new set of “eyes” in the air from Seattle to Chicago.

And what had Ethan been doing while all the excitement had been going on? Important things like mopping, learning to read plumbing blueprints, cleaning porcelain, and pushing his utility cart from toilet to toilet.

He hadn’t realized that while being a pilot trainee was a tough job, it got him out of a lot of work the other Seed Bank kids did day after day. There were a hundred technical apprentices, maintenance workers, and agricultural engineers. Everyone over the age of eight had a job.

Sure, there were fun things to do, too: the game rooms, basketball tournaments, virtual tours of places aboveground, a huge library, and, of course, school.

Ethan had been shunned, though.

It wasn’t just his job (the most undesired, smelly post on base). Everyone knew he and Paul had gotten into deep trouble. People went out of their way to ignore him.

The one good thing about this situation was that the colonel’s punishment gave him the perfect excuse to go almost anywhere unnoticed on base.

Including
the brig.

Ethan wheeled the cart down a dank corridor to the prison cell block.

At the end of the hall was a Plexiglas enclosure. Inside, a bored guard watched a bank of computer monitors. He was older than Ethan, maybe eighteen, and had sergeant stripes on his blue coverall uniform.

He looked up and snickered. “Hey, rookie,” the guard called out. “You come here to fly one of our toilets?”

“Yeah, that’s funny, Sergeant,” Ethan told him. “It’s going to be
hilarious
when your toilets overflow. You’ll be ankle-deep in the stuff.”

That shut him up.

The guard opened an impressively thick steel door and came to inspect Ethan and his cart. Everything was exactly as it looked: one pilot trainee on probation toilet duty and one cart full of plumbing tools and supplies.

All part of Ethan’s plan.

“Exactly what’s the problem?” the guard asked. He didn’t look convinced. “I didn’t see a report.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Ethan said. His heart pounded. He wasn’t good at lying. It’d been strictly against the rules back in his Santa Blanca life, but he figured a good way to lie was to start with the truth.

“There’s a problem in the semisolid waste processing plant,” he said, trying to sound like he didn’t care. “A blockage somewhere between here and there.”

The guard scratched his head. “So?”

“I was going to clear it from this end before the pressure backed everything out.”

This wasn’t a lie—just an unlikely scenario. The guard didn’t know that, though.

“But”—Ethan turned the cart around—“if you want me to ask the engineers to file a report first.”

“Wait.” The guard grabbed the cart. “Just fix it, rookie. Now.”

Ethan took out a map of the plumbing lines. “Let me figure out where I need to go.”

The guard held open the steel security door as Ethan wheeled his cart into the cell block. The walls were welded steel plates. It was cold and smelled of rust. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

Ethan didn’t like the feel of this place, but he guessed that was the point.

They passed one cell door, and another, and another as he pretended to consult his blueprint of the plumbing lines. Ethan glanced through the tiny window on the next door and halted.

Paul Hicks was inside, sitting on a cot, reading a book.

What
was
Ethan doing? Risking everything on Paul Hicks? The one person here who genuinely hated him?

Yes. He had to, because Paul was the only person who’d ever been to the Sterling Reform School and become a Resister.

“This is the spot,” Ethan whispered, hoping he didn’t sound as terrified as he felt.

The guard hesitated, looked at Paul, and then to Ethan. He shrugged, took out a set of keys, and unlocked the cell door.

Ethan exhaled. So far so good.

Now the hard part. He tugged on the cap he wore, pulling it low over his face.

“Hicks,” the guard growled. “This guy’s going to fix the toilet.”

“It works fine,” Paul muttered without looking up from his book,
All Quiet on the Western Front
.

“Well, it’s not
going
to work if he doesn’t do his job. Don’t get in his way.”

“Whatever,” Paul said.

Ethan pushed the cart into the cell.

“I’ll be back at my station,” the guard told Ethan. He motioned at the ceiling’s corner where a camera pointed into the cell. “I’ll be watching,” he said, loudly enough so Paul could hear. “Don’t let the prisoner give you any trouble. Yell if he starts anything.”

Ethan nodded.

The guard closed and locked the door behind him.

Ethan’s insides wobbled. He was more nervous than if he’d been about to fly into a swarm of Ch’zar.

He was trapped in a prison cell with his mortal enemy. Would Paul beat him up? He might feel like he had nothing to lose. More important, would Paul give Ethan enough time to explain himself? And then … would he believe him?

Leaning on his cart so his knees didn’t buckle, Ethan wheeled it to the toilet.

Paul ignored him and kept reading.

In case the guard was watching, Ethan went through the motions of plunging and then got out the metal snake and shoved it down the pipe.

“I came to tell you a few things,” Ethan whispered to Paul. “Listen. But don’t look up.”

Paul looked up.

His eyes widened, he dropped his book, and he set a foot on the floor like he was about to jump at Ethan. His mouth curled into a snarl.

But then he froze and glanced back at the camera.

Ethan guessed he was doing a mental calculation: how many times would he be able to pound Ethan’s head into the toilet before the guard came and pulled him off?

“I need your help,” Ethan hissed at him. “Not for me,
but for the base—for everyone. I don’t like you, Hicks. I tried to be nice to you and got punched in the nose for my trouble. But you know things that I need to know.”

Still angry, Paul pursed his lips, but the murderous glint in his eyes cooled.

“Well, Blackwood,” he whispered, “you’ve got my attention. You must have something awfully important to say to sneak in here.” He picked up his book, leaned back, and pretended to read. “You’ve got fifteen seconds before I finish the job I started last week in the hangar.”

Ethan wanted to ask Paul what his problem was. They were both already up to their ears in hot water, and he was willing to get in deeper? Just to get even with Ethan for saving his life?

What a jerk.

Ethan pushed his anger aside. There were more important things to tell Paul.

He started with Dr. Irving’s Ch’zar population projections.

“You hacked into Dr. Irving’s computer?” Paul asked, leaning forward, grinning so the scars on his face stretched.

Ethan carefully didn’t answer that and got to the part where the Resisters were outnumbered about a thousand to one … and would soon be outnumbered a hundred thousand to one if they didn’t do something.

The nothing-scares-me-I’m-a-fighter-pilot expression on Paul’s face faded.

“You’re kidding.”

“Madison was there. She can tell you.”

Paul looked around. “Madison’s not stupid enough to come down here to tell me anything.”

Ethan continued his story—how he’d been the only neighborhood kid to ever fly I.C.E. armor, how he figured it had to be partly the pilots’ stubbornness and independence that let them dominate the insect brains of the fighting suits.

“You
just
figured that out?” Paul muttered. “You’re a genius, Blackwood.”

Ethan pressed on. “I thought, ‘Where else could we find more pilots to even the odds?’ That’s when I dug into
your
background.”

Paul drew in a deep breath and shook his head as if he knew what Ethan was about to say.

“You’re from Sterling Reform School,” Ethan said. “That place must be full of kids—dangerous kids—with independent minds who could fight on our side. Even a few could make a big difference if they were half as good a pilot as you.”

It took a lot for Ethan to admit Paul was a good pilot. But he was.

The compliment, though, didn’t even register with Paul. The color drained from his face.

“No way,” he whispered. “I barely got away from that place the first time.”

Paul didn’t look like a great fighter pilot anymore. He looked like a scared little kid.

Ethan explained how he’d tried to tell Colonel Winter, and how she’d shot down his plans.

He took a step closer to Paul. “That’s exactly why I need you. I think you know where Sterling is. You know what goes on there—how well it’s guarded. You got out once. We wouldn’t go in unprepared. We’ll have I.C.E. backup. Satellite uplink support. Weapons. And we know how to fight the Ch’zar.”

Paul stared at Ethan as if he’d suggested they eat a handful of live, squirming worms.

“We need those kids,” Ethan urged. “If we don’t do anything, we’ll get creamed by the Ch’zar in a few months.”

Paul considered, looked Ethan straight in the eye, and laughed.

“You have real guts, coming down here. Your crazy plan, bucking the colonel’s orders … I’ve got to give it to you, Blackwood.” He picked up his book and started
reading again. “But Madison was right: you’re
all
guts and
no
brains.”

Madison had said that? It irked Ethan she’d talked about him behind his back.

“Are you in?” Ethan asked. “Or are you too scared to even try?”